Sensible Shoes

Have you ever caught your reflection in a mirror or a store window at the exact moment you look the most unattractive you've ever looked in your en-tire life? That moment when all the planets in our solar system have aligned and all your stars are in the house of ugly.

I mean that moment when your mouth is hanging open, your eyes are half shut, you have hair sticking up here and there, and your chin has sprouted other chins. Your posture is so bad you look like you should be ringing bells in a tower somewhere. Your gut is hanging waaaaaay out in front (I call it my front butt) and your bra has creeped way up in back because your back boobs keep pushing it up there. (Which means your front ones are safely wedged into the elastic waistband of your skirt. Thank God for elastic - that way I don't have to worry about the bessies going about un-tethered.)

I experience that moment on a daily basis.

When did it happen? When did I turn into Frumpy Spice? I don't recall the progression from cute girl in her 20's to overweight matron with bad hair in her middle 30's. It happened so gradually that I didn't notice it. It certainly wasn't my goal to wind up this way. I didn't wake up one morning and say to myself with gusto, "As God is my witness, I will wear long boxy shirts with big skirts every single day. I will make sure there are two or three separate front butt rolls visible on the front of my shirt, because it will give people something to stare at. My make-up will sit untouched in the drawer, and my hair will hang from my scalp like dead fish."

I'm feeling very scuzzy lately, and I think I might be having a bit of an identity crisis. Can you tell? I stand in front of my closet and just stare at it, mesmerized, as if Billy Blanks were in there doing his best Tae Bo. I'm uninspired by my life, my clothes, I'm bored with my shoes, I have no accessories. My hair is blah, my body is double blah. I am the biggest loser. And not the good kind.

My perfume. I like my perfume. I've been told I smell good. But that's it.

I've tried a new hair color in hopes that a darker do would solve my funk issues. I needed something to do during the babies' naps anyway, so it was me and my Clairol in the bathroom together. "Hm, what would happen if I leave it on for just five more minutes? How dark is too dark?" Well, when the only comment you get on your hair is, "ooh, Goth!" then you have your answer.

So what's a momma to do? How do I get out of this rut? Oh, I already know the answer. Get off my dead patoot and go for a walk. I suppose so. But finding inspiration is difficult lately. I could exercise and lose 80 pounds, get a new haircut and dust off my make-up case. But I'll still be the same person when all is said and done. I'll still be Dan's roommate, Ashley's doormat/teacher, a slave to the babies, scrubber of toilets, runner of vacuums and mixer of meatloaves. I won't suddenly have a life just because I've proven I can stick to an exercise program for more than 45 minutes. I'll still have the same frumpy skirts and stretched-out bras and sensible shoes.

Some days I wish I could have excitement and intrigue as a daily menu option. Wouldn't it be fun to be a spy? Chase the bad guys and use my SuperSpy karate skills to kick their butts with a "ha!" and a "high-ya!" And then wring 'em dry of information with my voodoo mind powers. Of course I'd have nary a hair out of place, and I'd do it all in fun wigs and disguises and sexy high-heeled shoes. (Hellooooo, who ever heard of a SuperSpy wearing sensible shoes?)

But I think I'd probably suck at being a spy. It'd be like having THE coolest house on the planet, but on the South pole where nobody can ever visit you. I'd want everyone to share in my fun life with me and I wouldn't be able to keep any secrets. So being a spy is out.

Oh well. Not a thing in the world I can do about all of this tonight. Can't afford the gym, can't reverse the Clairol, and the elastic on my skirts will hold for now. I think I'll wallow in self-pity for a little while longer. I'm used to that. I like to stew, it suits me. It's comfortable, like a big warm cushy blanket.

I love blankets. They hide front butts. And they go great with my sensible shoes.

UPDATE: I joined the gym yesterday. I haven't actually worked out yet but I feel tres sporty with my membership card riding around in my purse. I'm not looking forward to the mandatory fitness evaluation - that torture session where Adonis calculates your body fat percentage and cardiovascular limits - even if it is free.

I'm treating this like a lifestyle change, not a "new thing" so I'm hoping to stay motivated. We'll see how it goes, eh?